For his part, Drustan mab Necthana said nothing, only sitting and thinking, his dark eyes grave and thoughtful. He had sailed to the Three Sisters on the strength of Sibeal's dream; he would not gainsay my going.
"Fine," Ysandre said at last, irritable, fetching up before us. "Go. I tried to dissuade you once before, and I was in the wrong; I swore I would not do it again. Only remember, Melisande played you for a fool the entire time, and it is only with Elua's blessing that we are not all dead of it. If you think this is aught different, you're making the same mistake." She looked curiously at me. "Do you even have the slightest idea what game she's playing at now?"
"No." I answered calmly, my hands clasped before me to hide their trembling. In truth, it was that very thing that terrified me. I had always known, before. I may have misgauged her moves—with, as Ysandre observed, near-fatal results—but I had grasped the nature of the game. Now, I could not guess. I am writing to ask your aid. . . That sounded nothing like Melisande; and that alone made me nervous. "When I know, I will tell you, I promise."
"Elua," Ysandre sighed, and took my face between her hands, plant ing an unexpected kiss on my brow. "I swear, near-cousin, you cause me more worry than ten Shahrizai courtiers and my daughter Alais rolled into one," she said. "My lord Cassiline, please do whatever it is you do to bring her back safely."
Joscelin bowed, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I think sometimes they understood each other too well, those two. Drustan rose and came to take my hands.
"Necthana's daughters dream true dreams," he said. "My sister Moiread knew your voice before ever you set foot on Alba's shores. We will await your return."
So we took our leave.
We travelled lightly, Joscelin and I, making a straight course over land across Caerdicca Unitas. It felt strange, covering the same territory through which we had ridden ten years ago in Ysandre's entourage, desperate to thwart the last, deadly stroke of Melisande's scheme. Now, I was riding to her aid . . . because she had asked it. Passing strange indeed. It was on that journey that we heard the stories they tell of Ysandre's ride, the fell and glorious company of D'Angelines who passed like the wind along the northern route betwixt Milazza and La Serenissima. Joscelin and I heard them in the inns along the way, exchanging glances, remembering the metal taste of fear in our mouths, saddle-weary aches and the endless arguing of Ysandre de la Courcel and Lord Amaury Trente.
Of such stuff are legends made.
Naught of moment befell us in our journey and the weather held passing fair, with only a few showers of rain to dampen our spirits. The northern route is safe, now, as safe as ever it has been. Once, the threat of Skaldi raiders was prevalent, but now the southern border of Skaldia is peaceful, and a number of tribes have formed a loose federation, trading freely with the Caerdicci. It is Waldemar Selig's doing, in a way. Although his endeavor failed—Blessed Elua be thanked—he was somewhat new among the Skaldi: a leader who thought. He gave them ambition and hunger for the finer elements of civilization, and he taught them that together, they might achieve what they never could apart. Shattered by defeat at D'Angeline hands, the Skaldi have grown circumspect, and seek now to acquire through honest trade and effort what they once sought to seize by might of arms.
One day, I think, they may try it again. But for now, there is peace.
Of La Serenissima, I have written elsewhere at length. Suffice it to say that the city is unchanged. It is beautiful still, redolent with the light that reflects from the water of her many canals, and reeking too with the odor of those same canals. It is a city that holds too many memories for me, and few of them good.
I might have presented myself, under other circumstances, at either the Dogal Palace or the Little Court, and availed myself of the hospi tality that would surely have been rendered me. Incredible though it seems, Cesare Stregazza is still Doge of La Serenissima. I think he must be nearly ninety years of age now, which is unheard-of for his kind. Members of the Stregazza family seldom enjoy long lives. I daresay he would remember me, since I saved his throne for him. It is his younger son Ricciardo who administers much of the daily business of the city, or so Allegra writes. I think he will succeed his father as Doge. I hope so, for he is worthy.
The Little Court is Severio's, now. It has been for three years. They do not call it that, anymore; the Palazzo Immortali, he renamed it, after his social club. There is still a D'Angeline presence there—how not, when Severio is grandson to Prince Benedicte de la Courcel himself— but it is no longer a court in exile. For all that his blood is a quarter D'Angeline, Severio is Serenissiman to the core. He married a Serenissiman noblewoman some years ago, a daughter of the Hundred Worthy Families, and seems content with his lot. She is not, I understand, entirely unamenable to rough play in the bedchamber; a fortunate hap penstance, as I had cause to know. Severio had once been a patron of mine, and his appetites bore a keen edge.
I did not wish to intrude into either situation on this particular errand. There is a good deal of bitterness still over Prince Benedicte's betrayal and the plot laid by Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza—and D'Angeline influence is held much to blame. Unfairly, I think, for Marco Stregazza was the Doge's own elder son . . . but still.
The genius behind it was Melisande.
And I had ridden to La Serenissima in response to her request for aid.
In light of this fact, Joscelin and I took lodgings at one of the finer inns near the Campo Grande. La Serenissima is a city of trade above all, and there was nothing strange about a D'Angeline couple travelling there. The only strangeness was in my mind, and the echo of memory as I gazed from my balcony onto the bustling market in the square below, the morning sun glittering on the Great Canal and striking gold from the domed roof of the Temple of Asherat. Joscelin came to stand beside me and we looked, thinking the same thoughts.
"There," he said, pointing. "That's where the parrot-merchant's stand stood, from Jebe-Barkal. Do you remember?"
"The Yeshuite," I said. "The Immortali picked a fight with him, and Ti-Philippe had a bloody nose at the end of it." I frowned. "How did you end up defending the parrot-stand?"
"I don't remember." He leaned on the railing, bracing his arms. "Elua, but I was an idiot then! It's a wonder you forgave me."
"No." I curled my fingers about his forearm. "We were both idiots, and I was cruel. I was so blinded by my quest, I didn't care how much I hurt you. I taught myself to relish the pain instead. Call it an anguissette's folly."
Joscelin gazed down into the marketplace. "But you were right," he said, "when I thought you were on a fool's errand. And I was too proud to admit how terrified I was of losing you. It would have been different if I had."
"Ah, well." I rested my head against his shoulder. "Elua willing, we are a little older now, and a little wiser. Whatever happens ..." I drew back to look at his face. "Joscelin, you know I would never leave you?"
"I know," he said softly. "I do know it, Phèdre. But what lies between you and Melisande frightens me, because Kushiel's hand is in it. You are his Chosen, and he has marked you for his own . . . and I, I am only Cassiel's servant, no more. What is that, to one who was the Punisher of God?"
Alone among the Companions of Elua, Cassiel bore no gifts, no earthly power. No province bears his name, and he left no mortal line age. Only the Cassiline Brothers, middle sons, sworn into fruitless loy alty. What was it indeed to the cruel and merciful might of Kushiel, lord of atonement, guardian of the brazen portals of Hell? It is not an easy thing, to be Kushiel's Chosen.
"Love," I said to Joscelin. "Only love. And if that is not enough, Elua help us all."
Joscelin shivered and put his arms around me.
EIGHT
WE PRESENTED ourselves at the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea.If the priestesses there knew who I was, they gave nothing away. It was a piece of the oddness, to stand in the Temple proper and gaze at the vast effigy of the goddess. Carved of stone, Asherat stared across the open space unmoved, surrounded by leaping waves. Once, I had stood upon the balcony opposite and claimed her voice for my own, crying out to stop a traitor from being anointed her beloved, Doge of La Serenissima.
Now, a member of the Elect was summoned and came to greet us, her bare feet whispering on the floor, glass beads glistening on the strands of her silvery veil. Whether or not I knew her, I could not say. She bowed in acknowledgment, blue silken robes stirring beneath their netting.
"The Lady Melisande will see you."
Joscelin and I followed the priestess of the Elect, flanked by eunuch attendants bearing ceremonial barbed spears. I remembered how the Habiru lass Sarae had shot one with her crossbow, how Kazan's men had slain others scarce-awakened, and shuddered involuntarily.
That blood too was on my conscience; innocent blood.
Our path wound down many corridors, longer than it had when I'd visited with Ysandre. Even then, the priestesses of Asherat had treated Melisande like a Queen in exile. In ten years, it had only grown more marked. I do not doubt that they honored her claim of sanctuary out of genuine reverence. Nor do I doubt that the manner of it owed much to Melisande's wealth fattening their coffers. Ysandre had claimed her estates for the crown, when Melisande was first adjudged a traitor, but the profit in them had already been routed to the banking houses of La Serenissima. Like the adepts of Bryony House, the Shahrizai have al ways understood that money is power—even in defeat, Melisande had managed to preserve hers.
A double rap at vast doors with gilt hinges, opened from within by an acolyte with downcast eyes, and the soft voice of the priestess of the Elect announcing us in Caerdicci accents. "The Contessa Phèdre nó Delaunay of Montrève and Monsignor Joscelin Verreuil."
And with that, we were admitted into Melisande's presence.
Sunlight filtered into the salon, which adjoined some inner court yard, lending the room a pleasant warmth. There were low couches and a table, set about with careless elegance as in any D'Angeline sitting- room, and flowering shrubs in pots, perfuming the air.