Kushiel's Chosen (25 page)

No one had spoken to me so since Delaunay had died. "Thank you, Master," I whispered, leaning against his hand. "I do not wish to grieve you."

The Rebbe withdrew his touch, tucking his hands into his sleeves and smiling sadly into his beard. So old, and so mortal, he looked to me. "Ah, perhaps even Adonai says the same, when he considers his ill-begotten son Elua. I do not know, Naamah's Servant. But I fear in my heart, when I think on the fate of my people. If your Queen will hear wisdom, counsel her to temperance. They are but children, who draw their blades."

"I will." Rising, I curtsied to him. Still seated, he looked up at me.

"Your ... your Cassiline, the follower of the Apostate." He cleared his throat. "He comes no more, to sit at my feet and hear the teachings of Yeshua. When he comes, he listens now to the others, these children of steel." His eyes were deep with sorrow. "It is true, what they tell him; it is prophesied, that if Cassiel should return, Elua's Companions will follow. But in my heart of hearts, I do not believe it was meant to happen at the point of a blade."

"No." Swallowing hard, I made myself ask. "Rebbe ... was Joscelin involved in what happened the other night?"

Ysandre met him outside the gates, and I was part of the vast receiving party. All the banners of Terre d'Ange were flying, uppermost the golden lily on a field of green, surrounded by seven gold stars, sign of Blessed Elua and his Companions. Below it, side by side, flew the silver swan of House Courcel and the black boar of the Cullach Gorrym, Drustan's line, Earth's eldest children in Alba.

We saw them coming a long way off, and heard the cheers. An honor guard of D' Angeline soldiers flanked them on either side, riding helmetless and crowned with wreaths of violets and irises, parade-trained mounts prancing and arching their necks, violets braided into their manes. There were Alban war-chariots in the procession, covered in chased gold-work and shining in the bright sun, driven by men and women both.

And in the lead rode Drustan on his black horse.

He wore the trappings of the Cruarch of Alba; the scarlet cloak that spilled over his mount's hindquarters, the gold torque at his throat and a simple circlet of gold pinning his straight black hair. Intricate spirals of blue woad decorated his features, entwined his bare brown arms. Drustan mab Necthana was unquestionably Cruithne, whom scholars call Picti and name barbarians. I could not help but hear mur murs among the gathered nobility.

In the days that followed, there was feasting and cele brating sufficient to delight even the most libertine of souls. No talk of Naamah's Service now; I was at Ysandre's bidding, and busy enough for two. There were far more translators now than before, but Drustan had brought two hundred Cruithne in his entourage, and my skills were sore needed.

We had greeted each other, Drustan and I, and I was surprised to find how deeply glad I was to see him. Our eyes met in that familiar understanding; his dark and quiet in his tattooed face, like those of his sisters and his mother, who saw true things in their dreams. We both smiled a little, and then he took my hands and I gave him the kiss of greeting. There were murmurs at that, too, but Ysandre's calm mien silenced them. When he greeted Joscelin as a brother, I saw Joscelin smile for the first time in days.

At the Palace, I attended court functions and watched, while those I suspected—Barquiel L'Envers, Gaspar Trev alion, Percy and Ghislain de Somerville—surrounded Drus tan, speaking to him sometimes as a companion of war, sometimes as the Cruarch of Alba, feeling him out for trade, attempting to discern the hierarchy of power that supported his rule and forge alliances therein. Drustan handled it with deceptive skill, masking a calm intellect behind his woad markings and less-than-fluent D'Angeline; and little passed between them that was not heard and noted by Ysandre. Still, they played the game, and all the while before the impassive faces of the Queen's Cassiline attendants. I watched them all, and never a flicker of interest crossed the features of the latter. It did not allay my fears.

It was Drustan himself who took notice of my condition, hearing me stumble over a simple translation for one of his trusted lieutenants, a high-ranking lord of the Cullach Gor rym. We were at a state dinner, and he drew me aside.

"Phèdre." His voice was concerned. "You look unwell. I think maybe Ysandre asks too much of you."

He spoke D'Angeline, though my Cruithne was better. My eyes welled at the simple kindness and I bit my lip against tears. "No, my lord," I said when I was sure my voice was steady. "I am troubled by ill dreams, is all. I've not been sleeping well."

"No," I said automatically, then laughed. "There are, ac tually. It's not a quarter where I would think to seek aid, but yes."

"Your dreaming self seeks to tell you something your waking ears will not hear." Drustan's tone was serious. "You should go to them."

"I'll think on it," I said.

I did think on it, and dismissed the idea; and woke again that night with my heart racing, cold sweat on my skin and my mind a perfect blank.

Dispatching Ti-Philippe to the Palace to send word to Ysandre that I was ill, I went instead to Gentian House.

Although I was raised in the Night Court, of the Thirteen Houses, Gentian was the one I knew the least. Mystics and visionaries number among her adepts, and many of them join the priesthood of Elua when their marques are made. Indeed, the priest who taught me as a child was a former Gentian adept. What her patrons sought, I never knew until then.

Fortun looked askance at me as we stood before the en trance on Mont Nuit, bearing a subtle bronze relief with the insignia of the House; a gentian flower circumscribed by a full moon. "You are certain of this, my lady?" he asked doubtfully. I didn't blame him. 'Twas passing strange in deed, for one of the foremost courtesans of the realm to go seeking solace at the Night Court.

I told him about the nightmares, while he gazed at a sun beam slanting across the open air. "Can you help?" I asked when I had done.

"Yes." He looked remotely at me, face upturned to the slanting light. "Any adept of Gentian House is trained to aid a patron in giving voice to night's visions. What manner of adept would please you? I will have a selection arrayed for your pleasure."

I blinked, startled; I hadn't thought that far. "It matters not. Naamah's Servants have no preferences," I added with a faint smile.

"Every patron has a preference." Wrenching his attention from the sunbeam, the Dowayne looked me in the face with out smiling. "Male or female, young or old, fair or dark."

I shook my head. "My lord, I have known all these things, and none pleases me any better than the other. I am here for my dreams. Choose whom you think best."

"Very well." Rising, the Dowayne went to the door and murmured something to an apprentice. The lad went run ning, and presently returned with a young man in tow.

"Yes," I murmured. Raphael Murain bowed, shining hair falling forward over his shoulders, and took my hands, rais ing them to his lips to kiss them. I felt his breath play over my knuckles, a warm exhalation of pleasure at my accep tance.

It is very effective, the training of the Night Court.

"You will inform my man-at-arms?" I asked the Dowayne.

He nodded. "He may reside in comfort in the retainers' quarters, or depart and return in the morning. The choice is yours."

"Bid him return in the morning." I took a deep breath, and turned to Raphael Murain. "I place myself in your hands."

Raphael bowed again, solemn as a priest.