Kushiel’s Dart

In the coach, Joscelin was as silent as Guy had ever been, but a good deal more noticeable despite his subdued Cassiline attire. That he despised me, I had no doubt. Resentment at the role into which he had been forced shouted from every line of his body, glared from his summer-blue eyes. I did my best to ignore him, having considerably more important matters on my mind than his impaired dignity, but it wasn’t easy.

We made a strange couple, entering the west wing of the Palace. I wore the sangoire cloak over my gown-a modest one of brown velvet-and had my hair caught up in a black mesh caul, but I might as well have come tumbled straight from the bedchamber. Next to Joscelin’s solemn height, ashen garb and plain steel vambraces, everything about me cried Servant of Naamah. I tried to determine if he had ever been in the royal Palace before, and failed. If he was overwhelmed by its majesty and its bustle, he didn’t let it show.

At d’Essoms' quarters, the servant who answered the door recognized me and took a step back, startled. I saw his gaze slide sideways to take in the presence of a Cassiline Brother beside me.

"My lady Phèdre nó Delaunay," he said, collecting himself and bowing. I held no title, but I was of Delaunay’s household, and servants found it best to err on the side of caution. I owed that respect to Guy, I thought, and grieved for him. "My lord d’Essoms is not expecting you," d’Essom’s man said cautiously.

"Yes, I know." Joscelin Verreuil would be no help in a matter of protocol; I wrapped the sangoire cloak around me and summoned what dignity I could, raising my chin. "Will you send to Lord d’Essoms, and ask if he might spare a moment of his time for me?"

"Yes, of course, my lady." He hastened to usher us into the antechamber. "If you will be seated…?"

I took a seat gracefully, as if I did this sort of thing every day. Joscelin followed without a word and remained standing, at ease in the Cassiline manner, which consisted of a relaxed stance, arms crossed low, hands resting on the hilts of his daggers. I tried to catch his eye, but he gazed straight ahead, scanning the antechamber imperceptibly for danger.

In a short while, Childric d’Essoms entered with two men-at-arms in attendance, a curious look on his face. Seeing me, he halted. "Phèdre. What is it?"

I rose only to sink into a low curtsy, holding it until he gestured impatiently at me.

"I’ve no time for games," he said. "What brings you here? Is it Delaunay?"

"Yes, my lord." I straightened. "May I speak to you in private?"

D’Essoms glanced at Joscelin, who stood impassively and looked at nothing. D’Essoms' brows rose a fraction. "Yes, I suppose you may. Come with me."

I followed as he beckoned, and his men stood back and fell in behind me, cutting off Joscelin’s route.

"My lord." The Cassiline Brother’s voice was quiet and even, but it held a tone that stopped even d’Essoms in his tracks. He turned around and looked back. Joscelin gave his formal bow. "I have sworn an oath."

"Oaths." Childric d’Essoms' face twisted at the word. "I suppose you have. Accompany her if you must, Cassiline."

Another bow-how someone so rigid could make obeisance look as fluid as a river-bend, I will never know-and Joscelin stepped to my side. We retired, the five of us, to d’Essoms' receiving room. He took his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests, waiting, watching me with his hawklike gaze. Knowing better than to presume, I remained standing. His men-at-arms flanked him, hands hovering conspicuously over their sword-hilts.

"My lord d’Essoms." Uttering the words, I sank down to kneel, abeyante. It was engrained in me as deeply as Joscelin Verreuil’s Cassiline watchfulness. "My lord Delaunay sends me to beg a boon."

"A boon? Delaunay?" D’Essoms eyebrows rose to full arch, all the more marked by the way his taut braid drew back the dark hair from his face. "What does he want of me?"

One sentence, and he would know. I clasped my hands together and fought back another shiver, thankful of Joscelin’s grey-clad legs behind my back. "He desires a meeting with Duc Barquiel L’Envers. He asks that you act as go-between in this matter."

I looked up, as I said it; I saw d’Essoms' face change. "How does…?" he began, puzzled. It changed. "You."

Childric d’Essoms was trained to arms, and a skilled hunter besides; still, it took me by surprise, how swiftly he moved. It shouldn’t have, I’d seen from the first the unerring aim with which he toppled the plastinx in Cecilie Laveau-Perrin’s game of kottabos. But I failed to gauge it, and he had me in an instant, back straining beneath his knee, his blade at my throat. I felt it score a fiery line against my skin, and gasped.

"All this time," d’Essoms hissed, "you have played me false. Well, the King maintains his own justice against treachery, and so do I, Phèdre nó Delaunay. There is no contract between us now, and no word you may speak to bind me from acting."