Kushiel's Avatar (11 page)

It is a simple space, high-vaulted, enclosed with thick stone walls blackened by generations of smoke rising from the candles that illuminate it. I made an offering of gold and poured incense on the altar-fire. A billow of smoke arose, stinging my eyes with musky fragrance. The face of Kushiel’s great effigy swam above me, wreathed in smoke, stern and brazen, hands crossed on his breast bearing his rod and flail. When I had done, his priests helped me undress until I stood naked before him.

A sharp breath, indrawn behind a mask; I don’t know whose. Even Kushiel’s priests are not immune. I know what they saw, my bare skin glowing white by candlelight, the vivid black lines of my marque etching my spine, thorny and intricate, accented with crimson droplets. It was limned by Master Robert Tielhard himself, before he died; it is a crime now, to duplicate it for any but an
anguissette
. The Marquists’ Guild voted it so.

And I am the only one.

I twined my hair behind my neck in a lover’s-haste knot and knelt on scrubbed flagstones before the whipping post. Without further breach of protocol, a masked priest lashed my wrists to the post, tying them tight with rawhide thongs. My arms were stretched, pulling at their sockets, and my breath came quick and hard.

Then came the scourging.

They are masters of the art, Kushiel’s priests-for an art it is, although ignorant people may believe otherwise. At the first stroke of iron-tipped lashes against my back, I cried out, jerking against my bonds. Pain, blessedly welcome, burst across my skin.

“My lord Kushiel!” I gasped. “Forgive me, for I do not know your will!”

The lashes of the flogger fell upon me again, too quickly for readiness; I discerned a man’s touch in it. Streaks of fire laced my vision and my breath burned in my lungs, forced out in an involuntary cry. The rough wood of the whipping post pressed against my cheek. Again he struck, and again. Agony blossomed in me with an unbearable pleasure. I heard my own voice whimpering, and a priest’s sibilant whisper above it, reminding me.

“Make now your confession.”

“My lord Kushiel.” Sunk on my knees, I craned back my head, seeing my own arms foreshortened and Kushiel’s serene, pitiless face far beyond, floating in a haze of red. “Ah!” The iron-tipped lashes curled about my ribcage, biting deep. “The path is too dark, my lord, and I am afraid!”

No mercy. The flogger struck without pity, a whistling crack in the air, spattering wetness as it kissed my flesh. My head fell forward to hang upon my breast and I wept for shame.

“My lord Kushiel,” I whispered, hearing my voice broken and small, clotted with tears. A shudder of release wracked my pain-stricken body as I uttered the fearful words. “I wish in my heart that I were no longer your Chosen.”

There was a pause, the chastiser’s rhythm broken … and then the air sung and the flogger came down hard, bursting against my lacerated skin in an explosion of pain. Once … twice … thrice, and it was ended, leaving me limp and gasping as I sagged in my bonds, feeling at peace.

“Be free of it,” a voice murmured. I heard the sound of a dipper plunging, and then searing agony as saltwater was poured tenderly over my weals. Once more my body jerked and I flung back my head, seeing Kushiel’s unaltered countenance through tear-streaked eyes.

It was done. I sank back onto my heels, lassitude infusing my limbs as the priests untied my wrists. With impersonal care, they helped me dress. The touch of my undergarments set off waves of pain.

To my surprise, one of the priests dismissed the others with a wordless gesture. When they had gone, he reached up and drew back the hood of his robe, removing his bronze mask. A mortal face, strong and stern, framed with iron-grey hair, regarded me.

“Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève.” Unmuffled by the mask, his voice was deep and resonant. “I am Michel Nevers, foremost among Kushiel’s priesthood in the City of Elua. I would speak with you.”

“My lord priest.” I curtsied, swallowing against the discomfort. “As you please.”

The chamber to which Michel Nevers escorted me was dimly luxuriant, lit with too few lamps and hung about with tapestries. There were bookshelves on the walls, laden with well-tended volumes, the bindings cracked and much repaired. I saw a copy of Sarea’s illustrated
History of Namarre
, that contains the story of Naamah’s daughter Mara, Kushiel’s handmaiden and, some say, the first-ever
anguissette
.

“Drink.” The priest Michel poured me a glass of strong red wine. “It strengthens the blood. And you have need of strength.”

Obedient, I sipped, and then drank deeper, tasting in the wine the bursting life of the grape, nourished by sun and rain, fed by dark earth enriched with death’s decay; the soil of Terre d’Ange, moistened by Blessed Elua’s own blood. Earth the womb that begot him, blood and tears the seed that quickened him. These things I tasted, and the violent death of the grape, the lusty joy of the commonfolk that crushed it, the vintner’s careful lore, time and the slow wisdom of age transmuting it into wine, the oaken cask that warded it whispering of a tree’s immense lifetime and the bite of the axe that made an end to it.

“You see.” He poured a second glass and held it aloft, regarding it. “So much does it take to make a glass of wine.”

“My lord.” I set down my glass, wincing as my gown drew taut across my shoulders. “Do you seek to lesson me?”

“No.” Michel Nevers smiled, unexpected and kind. “Only to remind you that, like the grape, we do not know to what end our brief lives will be transformed. You no longer wish to be an
anguissette
?”

“I am afraid.” I folded my hands in my lap and met his gaze squarely. “My path lies in darkness, and Kushiel’s Dart pricks me to unwanted desires. I wound my beloved with every choice I make, every breath I draw. Yes, my lord priest; I wish Kushiel would choose another. Have I not served him well? I have sworn this quest on my own honor, to free one who was a friend to me. Is it not enough? Must I be goaded every step of the way?”

He bowed his head, iron-grey hair falling over his brow. “You speak of Melisande Shahrizai.”

“Yes.”

“Phèdre.” The priest raised his hand. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that such was your lot. Why you?” He shook his head. “I cannot say. We may spend many lifetimes upon the wheel of life before Blessed Elua admits us through the gates into the true Terre d’Ange-that-lies-beyond. Mayhap Kushiel in his infinite mercy allows you to atone for some crime that cannot be spoken. I do not know. I know only that he has chosen wisely, and if his touch lingers, his work is not yet done.” Stooping, he kissed my brow with lips surprisingly gentle. “Kushiel’s Chosen, Naamah’s Servant. You bear the marks of both, and both you have served truly and well. Do not forget, they are merely the Companions of Blessed Elua, in whose bright shadow all of us follow-even Cassiel.”

“It is hard, my lord,” I whispered.

“Yes.” Michel Nevers nodded, and I saw in his gaze something resembling infinite compassion. “It is.”

Thus, then, my visit to the temple of Kushiel, and if I left it no wiser, at least I left it oddly comforted, both by the priest’s words, and by the penance I had endured. The aftermath of pain left me calm and clear-headed. Although the yearning had not gone-it never left me completely-the tempest induced by my encounter with Melisande had subsided.

Joscelin tended to me that night, massaging unguent into the fresh weals. I lay content beneath his hands, enjoying the sensation, my head pillowed on my arms.

“All of this in love’s name,” he mused. “I don’t pretend to understand it, Phèdre.”

“No,” I murmured, heavy-lidded. The unguent stung where the lash had broken skin. It felt good. “But you were right to send me.”

“I know. I ought to, by now. How you and I ever survived one another is a mystery.” In his voice was a fondness and humor no one else could ever comprehend save we two, whose love must surely make Blessed Elua smile. “Ah, well. You’ll need to see the marquist, love.” His fingertips traced a welt where it crossed the etched lines of my marque. “It will need retouching. Here,” his fingers moved, “and here.”

I shuddered under his touch, that transmuted pain into yearning. If we were ill-suited in the manifestations of our desires, still, there was an especial torment in knowing it, in the need to steal bliss by illicit means. Feeling my body grow languid with desire, I breathed his name, half-laughing as it caught in my throat. “Joscelin …”

“Do you want… ?” Joscelin whispered, one hand sliding over the curve of my buttocks.

“Yes.” Rolling over, I drew him down to me. “Oh, yes.”

Twelve

IN THE morning, I steeled my courage and presented myself at court.

I did not think Ysandre would welcome our news, and I was right. Her face went white and she paced the drawing-room like an angry lioness, lips moving in silent imprecations. Joscelin stood a step nearer to me than was his wont in the royal presence, and I was glad Drustan and Sibeal were there.

The annals of history will not show that Ysandre de la Courcel had a fierce temper. I have seldom seen her loose it unguarded, and never without provocation. It was a measure of her trust that she permitted herself to display it before us.

Nonetheless, it made me nervous.

“Who?” she demanded, halting with arms akimbo. “Who would do such a thing, and tell me naught of it?”

I opened my mouth, and closed it prudently.

“The Shahrizai.” The Queen’s lips thinned. “Will they ever be a plague on my reign? I will send for Duc Paragon …” She stopped, and I saw her remember. The last time she had summoned the Duc de Shahrizai before her throne, it had been because of her uncle Barquiel L’Envers’ unorthodox meddling.

“My lady,” I said. “Ysandre. Melisande is certain it was none of her kin.”

“What do you think?” Drustan mab Necthana asked me.

“I think she is telling the truth.”

“The whole truth?” Ysandre looked hard at me.

“Probably not.” I shrugged. “One may assume it, with Melisande. But what she spoke was truth.”

The Queen’s sharp gaze turned to Joscelin. “What do you say, Cassiline?”

“Your majesty.” He bowed to her with crossed forearms. “I concur with my lady Phèdre. Melisande Shahrizai is as dangerous as a viper, and twice as subtle, but I do not believe she lied.”

“That child,” Ysandre said, half to herself. “That poor boy. I warned her of as much.”

Drustan was murmuring to Sibeal, clarifying the exchange in Cruithne. On her face alone I saw somewhat different reflected: hope, and a visionary’s clear certainty.

“It was a true dream,” she said in her softly accented D’Angeline when he had done. Her wide-set dark eyes turned my way. “You will find a way to free him.”

Hyacinthe.

Jebe-Barkal.

“My lady Sibeal,” I said. “I pray it may be so. But I have made a promise, and I must keep it. It may be that a child’s life hangs in the balance.”

“And it may be too late.” Ysandre did not mince words. “Whosoever is responsible.”

“I know.” I met her eyes. “Still, I must look.”

“Whosoever is responsible.” She took a deep breath. “Whoever it is, they will face our justice, Phèdre, as surely as any criminal. Do you understand this to be true?”

“Yes, my lady. Ysandre.” I knew what she was saying, and I bled for her. Ysandre de la Courcel was no fool. She had bethought herself of her uncle, and his ungentle methods.

“For so long as he lived,” she mused, “this child Imriel de la Courcel has posed a threat to my throne and my daughters’ inheritance. I have always known it. And I have always been prepared to deal with it, in my own way, in accordance with the dictum of Blessed Elua. I will show no clemency to any who seek to deal with it otherwise.”

“I understand.”

Ysandre raised her eyebrows. “You will, I trust, report to me before you do to Melisande Shahrizai, near-cousin?”

“My lady!” I protested. “Yes. Of course.”

And with that, we were dismissed.

In the halls of the Palace, Joscelin and I spoke of our meeting in low tones, offering courteous greetings to those nobles we passed. Only a few scant weeks ago, we would have numbered ourselves among them, D’Angeline peers who came to meet and mingle in the various salons, the Hall of Games, come for gossip and flirtation and such games of power as are played out in those elegant, marble walls. Now, it all seemed trivial.

“Did you see her face?” I murmured to Joscelin. “Although she did not say it, I think she bethought herself of Barquiel L’Envers.”

“I saw.” He paused as we drew nigh to the Marquis d’Arguil and his lady wife, a handsome couple in their forties, very much a la mode. Attending them a pace and a half to the rear was a Cassiline Brother, a young man in ash grey with a cultivated look of stern hauteur. “Well met, my lord,” Joscelin said politely, “my lady.”

“Comtesse!” The Marquise d’Arguil took my hands in her own, offering the kiss of greeting. “We invited you to our cherry-blossom fête, you and your gorgeous consort, and you were gone from the City, heartless creatures. You must promise to come to our next.”

“I will try, my lady, but I make no promises.” From the corner of my eye, I saw their Cassiline attendant make an ostentatious greeting to Joscelin, inlaid vambraces glittering as he swept his arms crossed before him and bowed. “Betimes my business requires travel.”

Ten years ago, after Joscelin’s duel in the Temple of Asherat, an unprecedented influx of noble-born families sought to revive the ancient tradition of sending their middle sons to the Cassiline Brotherhood. Even as the Queen had eliminated her own Cassiline Guard, it had become fashionable for minor royalty to hire them. I think the old Prefect, under whom Joscelin had trained, would have dismissed the majority of applicants on both sides out of hand. The new Prefect did not. Most of the would-be Cassilines never completed training, but a few stuck it out, and were now assigned to wealthy wards, sworn to protect and serve.

And all of them regarded Joscelin with a desperate mix of hero-worship and contempt. His defeat of the traitorous Cassiline who sought Ysandre’s life was the stuff of enduring legend; but he had left the Brotherhood for my sake, and been declared anathema for it. Those who remain, honoring their vows of celibacy, resent him for it.