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The whispers followed us. “Phèdre,” I heard, my name spoken as in my dream. “Phèdre.” And as in my dream, we retraced our journey, step by step, winding our way through the City of Elua in a slow and stately pavane.

In the narrow courtyard outside my house, my stable-keeper Benoit dropped his jaw to see us, a pair of buckets swinging from a yolk across his shoulders.

“Benoit,” I said. “We are back. Will you prepare a stall-”

That was as far as I got before the door opened and a young man burst through it, with ruddy cheeks and shoulders on him like an ox. He stared at us in disbelief before shouting at the top of his considerable lungs. “Philippe!
Philippe
!”

I’d gotten half out of the saddle and almost remembered the young man’s name by the time Ti-Philippe came at a run, sword half-drawn from a scabbard he clutched in his bare hand. He skidded to a halt on the frost-slick paving stones and let out a whoop of pure joy, tossing his sword aside. “
Phèdre
!” Grabbing me about the waist, he swung me free from the saddle and spun me around. “You’re
alive
!”

“You doubted it?” I asked dizzily when he set me down.

“I shouldn’t have,” he said, and grinned. “I
shouldn’t
have. Cassiline!” He turned to Joscelin, who had dismounted, and embraced him hard, thumping his back. “Elua’s Balls, it’s good to see you!”

“And you, sailor.” Even Joscelin was beaming. “And you!”

“And what have you brought home this time, my lady? “ Ti-Philippe inquired, surveying the others, still seated in their saddles. “A Yeshuite sage? A Jebean honor guard? They don’t
look
Jebean …” His voice trailed off as Imriel drew back his hood. “Name of Elua!”

“Philippe Dumont,” I said, making formal introduction, “this is-”

“Imriel de la Courcel,” he finished for me. “Ah, my lady! You’ve done it now.”

After that, a good deal of chaos ensued, foremost of which was the emergence of Eugenie, who pushed everyone else aside to embrace me and then take me by the shoulders and shake me, weeping, only to embrace me again. Joscelin, she kissed resoundingly on both cheeks, then shook. Imriel watched it wide-eyed. Ti-Philippe saw to the business of dismissing the Serenissimans with thanks and a gift of coin. He spoke Caerdicci and sailor’s argot alike, and I’ve no doubt he instructed them on the best possible places to spend one’s coin on dice and wine and pleasure in the City of Elua. I thanked them too, before they left, and promised to commend them to Ricciardo Stregazza. All the while, Hugues-I had remembered his name-toiled to bring our laden trunks inside the house, while Benoit tended to our mounts and Eugenie commenced to turn the entire household upside down to welcome us home.

“Don’t,” I said gently to her. “We’re bound straightaway for the Palace. It’s not an occasion to celebrate, not yet. A bath and a bite of food is all.”

Her shoulders slumped, then straightened. “Ah, child. It’s the boy, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

Eugenie patted my cheek. “He needs a bit of tending, doesn’t he? And a light touch, I’m guessing. Will you be bringing him home from the Palace, my lady?”

“You know who he is?”

“Shouldn’t I?” There was kind wisdom in her smile. “I told you once, my lady: Hearth and home mean love, too. And if ever there was a lad in need of it, it’s that one.”

I found Imriel in the salon, considering the bust of Delaunay upon its marble plinth. I sat upon the couch and watched him. It seemed strange to be here. The house was immaculately kept, smelling of citrus oil and beeswax. Everything was as I had left it, down to the smallest detail-the pomander ball on the low table, the engraved fire-screen angled just so, the tall vase in the corner with leathery dried flowers that rattled like a gourd when shaken, a gift from a long-ago patron with an interest in botany.

“Who was he?” Imriel asked without turning around.

“That is my lord Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève, of whom I have spoken,” I said. “He bought my marque, and adopted me into his household. And he trained me in the arts of covertcy.”

“He made you his spy.”

“Yes,” I said. “He did. But he asked me, every step of the way, if I was certain it was my own desire. I always wondered, Imri, why he kept asking me the same question, over and over, when my answer was always the same. I understand it better now.”

Imriel sat down next to me. “Like you keep asking if I’m sure.”

On the plinth, the bust of Delaunay watched us both, his austere marble features imbued with all the irony and tenderness of the living man. I rested my chin in my hands and gazed back at him, wondering what he would make of this unlikely turn of events, wishing he was here, as I have wished a thousand times since his death. “Yes,” I said. “Like that.”

“Were you ever sorry?”

I glanced at Imriel to find him smiling, eyes dancing; he already knew the answer. “No.” I smiled back at him. “I may have cursed it once or twice, but I never regretted it. Not in the end.”

“I won’t either, you know,” he said. “I won’t.”

“I may remind you of that on occasion.” I leaned over to kiss his brow. “Come on, I’ll show you to the bathing-room so we can get you presentable for court.”

“Can I wear my
chamma
and Ras Lijasu’s belt?”

“Mmm, better not. It’s too cold, and anyway, I’d rather not remind Ysandre-” A pounding at the front door interrupted my words. “Imriel, go into the kitchen with Eugenie. Go!”

He went, the shadow of fear back in his eyes. Ti-Philippe, Joscelin and Hugues were already in the entryway when I arrived. Ti-Philippe motioned for silence, then opened the small speaking-partition in the door, standing well to the side. “Who calls upon the Comtesse de Montrève?”

“Queen’s Guard,” came the muffled reply.

Ti-Philippe put his eye to the partition, then stepped back, nodding grimly. “There’s an entire squadron on your doorstep, my lady.”

I sighed. “Admit them.”

There were twenty of them, polished sword-hilts at their sides, boots gleaming, in surcoats of deep blue with the swan of House Courcel worked large in silver embroidery. The lieutenant bowed to me. “Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling tired and travel-worn.

“By order of her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel, you are remanded into my custody,” he announced in formal tones. “I am ordered to bring you, Messire Joscelin Verreuil and your young … companion … to the presence of the throne. Immediately.” Something flickered in his expression and he added in a different voice, “I am sorry, my lady.”

“I understand,” I said. “May we have a few moments to change out of this attire? We’ve ridden hard these last days.”

The lieutenant paused, then shook his head. “My orders were to bring you immediately.”

I inclined my head. “I will get the boy.”

Out of their sight, I hurried to my bedchamber and fetched a couple of other things as well, overturning the trunk Hugues had brought there and turning the neatly preserved order of my quarters into complete disarray. One item, I stowed in the travelling purse that still hung from my girdle; the other, I tucked under one arm. That done, I went to the kitchen to find Imriel.

He was in Eugenie’s custody, his face closed and wary.

“The Queen sent an escort,” I said. “She requests our presence.”

“Do we have to go?”

I nodded. “Do you remember what to say?”

“I remember.” Imriel swallowed. “And I’m … I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble.”

“Don’t be.” Touching his cheek, I smiled at him. “It was our choice, you know that. And if you hadn’t gone with us … like as not, I’d still be trying to sweet-talk the women of Tisaar-or at best, pounding on that temple door on Kapporeth, begging the priest to let me in. Remember that?” Too tense to reply, he nodded. “Good,” I said. “Just don’t scream like that today. I don’t think it will have a good effect on Ysandre de la Courcel.”

It made him laugh, as I had intended, and he looked less apprehensive as we went to meet the Queen’s Guard, at least until they bowed to him.

“Prince Imriel de la Courcel,” the lieutenant greeted him, straightening. The genuine courtesy he had shown me had vanished at the sight of Imriel. His face was composed in a formal mask, only a slight twitch at the corner of one eye betraying a hint of disturbance. “I bring you glad greetings from your kinswoman, her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel.”

“Thank you.” Imriel studied the man’s twitch.

“My lords, my lady, you will come with us, if you please,” the lieutenant said, attempting to ignore Imri’s scrutiny. He put up one hand as Joscelin moved forward. “Forgive me, Messire Verreuil, but you may not bear weapons into the presence of the Queen. Your arms must stay.”

Joscelin raised his brows. “I have dispensation from her majesty herself.”

“Not any more.”

Someone among the Queen’s Guard murmured, watching Joscelin methodically disarm. They knew the legend. He did it without complaint, and Hugues stepped forward to accept his well-worn gear with reverence.

“May I ask what you carry, my lady?” The lieutenant indicated the coffer under my arm.

“Rocks and metal,” I said, “wrought in a pleasing form.”

He made me show him anyway, and when I did, he flushed. “I am sorry. It is my duty, my lady.”

“I know,” I said. “Shall we go?”

Ninety-One

WE TRAVELLED to the Palace in one of the royal carriages, the Courcel arms on the side. Two guards rode with us inside, and the rest provided a mounted escort. The curtains were drawn. Outside, on the streets, I heard nothing but the usual idle curiosity, passers-by pausing to bow or curtsy, speculating on what royal guest or family member rode within.

That ended when we reached the Palace.

I didn’t mind, for myself. I have been a Servant of Naamah for many years now, and I am accustomed to stares and murmurs. And Joscelin … Joscelin had endured it before. My heart bled for Imriel.

Ysandre was done with secrecy, that much was obvious. We walked the wide, gracious halls of the Palace openly, flanked by her Guard. Six of them surrounded Imriel, hands on hilts, tense and alert; the others kept a close eye on Joscelin and me, several paces behind. All I could see of Imri was that his back was very straight, and he did not look to either side.

In the countryside, he had gone unrecognized. Not in the City of Elua, and least of all in the Royal Palace. Strolling nobles stopped and stared. One woman clutched the lapdog she carried so hard it yelped in protest. A lordling’s attendant bolted down a side corridor-headed, I guessed, for the Hall of Games, where guests of the Palace were apt to while away the hours.

The halls grew lined with spectators, and an undercurrent of venom ran through their whispers. It seemed a very long walk to the throne-room, where we were at last admitted. The doors were closed behind us, the spectators turned away.

Two more squadrons of the Queen’s Guard lined the walls, standing at attention. At the far end was Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d’Ange, seated in majesty. When I’d seen her thus before, it was as an attendant at her side. She wore a gown of deep violet adorned with a jeweled girdle, and a heavy cloak of forest green, lined with cloth-of-gold. Her fair hair was elaborately dressed, bound with a simple gold fillet. On her left hand stood Duc Barquiel L’Envers, handsome and inscrutable; at her right were her daughters, Sidonie and Alais. They had grown since I’d seen them.

A family affair, then; and one of state, for I recognized a handful of other nobles in attendance, members of Parliament. This was meant to be witnessed.

A short distance into the room, Joscelin and I were made to halt, while Imriel was led to approach the throne. No one spoke. Ysandre waited gravely, watching him approach. She had waited for this moment for a very long time. The guards led him to the foot of the throne and stepped away, leaving him alone before her. Imriel gave a rigid bow.

“Imriel de la Courcel,” Ysandre said, and smiled, her features transforming. “Welcome home.” Rising from her throne, she descended the step to lay her hands on his shoulders. “We have waited a long time to welcome you to your family, cousin.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” He got the words out without a tremor, and I was proud. Ysandre turned to face her watching kin and peers, one hand still on Imri’s shoulder.

“This is Imriel de la Courcel, Prince of the Blood, son of my great-uncle Prince Benedicte de la Courcel and Melisande Shahrizai of Kusheth,” she said firmly. “In the sight of all here assembled, we do acknowledge him and his ancestral claims, and declare him innocent of all crimes committed by his family. Is it heard and witnessed?”

A dozen voices replied more or less in unison, “It is heard and witnessed.”

I watched their faces as they responded. Most were schooled to neutrality under the Queen’s scrutiny; Barquiel L’Envers looked amused. Amaury Trente was there, and his expression was stony. The Lady Denise Grosmaine, who was Secretary of the Presence and attended all formal functions with the Queen to record what transpired, might have had a hint of kindness on her face. Sidonie, the young Dauphine, regarded Imriel with her mother’s cool gravity, and none of the underlying warmth. Only Princess Alais, the younger daughter, considered him with frank curiosity, intrigued by the notion of a new cousin near enough in age to be a brother to her.

“We are pleased.” Ysandre inclined her head. “Remember it well, and welcome him into your hearts, as we welcome him to ours. And,” she added, “let it also be known: A crime against Prince Imriel will be considered a crime against House Courcel.”

“So don’t assassinate the little bugger,” Barquiel L’Envers murmured.

Someone gasped.

Someone loosed a hysterical laugh.

I do not know, to this day, if L’Envers intended the remark to be audible. He spoke under his breath, but the acoustics in the throne-room are outstanding, designed by Siovalese engineers. Surely Barquiel L’Envers knew it. He may have done it for spite, or for a whim; he may have had a deeper purpose in mind. I cannot say.

Ysandre turned pale with anger. She would have turned on him then and there if Imriel hadn’t spoken. It wasn’t how we had planned it, but he had his mother’s fine sense of opportunity and timing.