Kushiel's Chosen

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.

For all that, I had precious little time to speak to Drustan mab Necthana, and I fretted at it, longing, as I never thought I would, for the fearful days when he was a deposed heir unable to move his allies, and I the terrified emissary of an embattled Queen, wholly unsuited for my role. It is a time I never thought I would wish to revisit-and yet, it seemed to me in retrospect, I had friendship and companions about me, instead of pageantry, court politics and dire intrigue.

I'd had Hyacinthe ... and Joscelin. One I had lost, and the other, I was losing.

At night, I had nightmares still. I woke bathed in cold sweat and could not remember.

At the Palace, I attended court functions and watched, while those I suspected-Barquiel L'Envers, Gaspar Trevalion, Percy and Ghislain de Somerville-surrounded Drustan, 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.

I tried to delve into the buried secrets of Lyonette de Trevalion, and got nowhere.

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 Gorrym. 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."

Drustan frowned slightiy, brows creasing where a line of blue dots bisected them. "Breidaia wanted to come, but I asked her to stay. Would that I had let her. She is skilled in the speaking of dreams."

"I remember," I murmured. She was his eldest sister, who had dreamt of Hyacinthe on an island. Moiread had been the youngest, but she was gone now, slain in the fighting outside of Bryn Gorrydum. We both remembered, silent, and then I gave myself a little shake. "It doesn't matter, my lord. I don't remember them anyway."

"You have no D'Angelines gifted in the matter of dreaming?"

"No," I said automatically, then laughed. "There are, actually. 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 entrance 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 indeed, for one of the foremost courtesans of the realm to go seeking solace at the Night Court.

"Yes." A hint of coolness in the spring breeze made me wrap my arms around myself and shiver. It had gotten worse, since the day Marmion was exiled; I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept through a night. "Drustan is right. I can't go on thusly."

"As you wish." Fortun gave a bow, and knocked upon the door.

Inside, I met alone with the Dowayne, a tall man with greying hair and leaf-green eyes. He had a trick of gazing at one out of the corner of his eyes, as if he saw more on the periphery of his vision than straightward.

"Comtesse Phèdre no Delaunay de Móntrève." He gave my full name and title in a melodious voice, no trace of surprise in it. "Gentian House is honored by the presence of Naamah's esteemed Servant. How may we please you?"

I told him about the nightmares, while he gazed at a sunbeam 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 without 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 running, and presently returned with a young man in tow.

All the adepts of the Night Court are beautiful, and Raphael Murain nó Gentian was no exception. He was near to my own age, with straight ash-brown hair that fell shining almost to his waist and long-lashed grey eyes. He smiled at me with a sweetness that put me in mind of Alcuin, and I felt the sting of tears. That was another thing; with this lack of sleep, I was altogether too near to crying in my waking hours.

"Does he please you?" the Dowayne asked, watching me carefully with his sidelong gaze.

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

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

The Dowayne told him of my nightmares and my wish to recover them and discern their meaning; Raphael listened as grave as a physician, and turned to me when he was finished. "It is needful that you pass the night in Gentian House, my lady," he said softly. "Such dreams will not come when bidden, but as the course of their nature dictates. I must needs sleep beside you, and breathe the air of your dreams. Is this acceptable to you?"

"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.

So it was that I signed the Dowayne's contract and made arrangements for the payment of the fee, and afterward, I was escorted to the baths. One does not hasten pleasure, in the Night Court. I luxuriated in the hot waters and the attentions of a skilled apprentice, while a pair of House musicians played softly on harp and flute. When I was done, I was given a robe of heavy silk to don, and served a light meal with wine. There was some whispered discussion outside the door, and then Raphael Murain came in to join me, and two apprentices appeared to dance for our pleasure, a boy and girl no older than fifteen, clad in veils of filmy gauze.

"It is a part of their training," he told me in his soft voice, a glimmer of amusement in his grey eyes. "But they are nervous, I think, at performing for Phèdre no Delaunay."

"Are you?" I asked, a little reckless. He shook his head and smiled. It made me like him better, for some reason.

It was strange indeed, to be a patron of the Night Court, and I struggled to relax. I, who could surrender my will in an instant to a patron's desires, was hard put to accept indulgence. Raphael watched me and cocked his head, hair falling to one side, and beckoned to an apprentice to issue a request. In this place, his soft voice commanded. Taking my hand, he led me to his quarters, where silk hangings swathed the walls in dim colors and lamplight flickered on a rich, velveted pallet. A boy sat cross-legged in the corner playing a lyre, and a young female adept knelt abeyante beside the bed, warming a bowl of scented oil on a brazier.

"My lady," Raphael whispered, undoing the sash of my robe with skilled, gentle hands and sliding it from my shoulders, kissing me softly. The robe pooled around my feet, and for a moment, his eyes gleamed. I could hear the adept draw in her breath. He loosed my hair, gathering it up in both hands, the rich, dark mass of it. "Naamah's blessing is upon her servants." Kissing me again-he had lips as soft as a woman's-he urged me gently to the pallet. "It is not yours only to give, but to receive."

I lay down, obedient, and felt the young adept's hands spread warmed oil over my skin, fragrant and pleasing. I had not known, until then, how much tension my body held; even the bath had not assuaged it. Bit by bit, it eased beneath her skillful massage, muscles easing one by one, until I lay upon my belly, loose-limbed and languorous, watching Raphael move gracefully about the room. He opened a coffer on his nightstand and withdrew a lump of resin, placing it in a small brazier, and the sweet scent of opium filled the room, a thin line of blue smoke redolent with visions. The music slowed, the lyricist's fingers wandering dreamily.

Growing light-headed, I sprawled at ease beneath the adept's slow-kneading hands; she bent low, when Raphael was not looking, to place a kiss at the base of my spine where my marque began, and I could feel her breath warm against my skin.

When her hands bid me turn over, I made no protest. I lay languid and waiting, watching Raphael Murain remove his clothing as the adept-I never learned her name-performed the arousement, hands slick with oil sliding over my body; my breasts, nipples taut and upright, my hipbones and the flat hollow of my belly, clever, oiled fingers exploring the valley between my thighs, parting me as one would open the petals of a flower. All the while, he smiled at me, undressing slowly to reveal a body lithe and boyishly muscled, the tip of his erect phallus brushing his belly. When he turned, I saw the marque of Gentian House limned on his spine, complete even to its moon-and-flower finial. As young as I, and as experienced. He took a long time with the languisement, until I could not tell where my flesh ended and his mouth began.

By the time he knelt over me, I was ready and more, and I cried out at the pleasure of it as he entered me, oil-slickened body sliding up the length of mine. There are those who think an anguissette knows pleasure only through pain, but it is not so. Though any one of my patrons would have seized his pleasure or forced mine, thrusting hard, Raphael Murain was an adept of the Night Court. He braced himself on his arms above me, smiling and moving in slow, languorous strokes, lowering his head to kiss me. Elua, it was sweet! His hair fell around my face in shining curtains, and I returned his kisses as only another of Naamah's Servants might, an intricate dance of tongues, slow and unhurried. His hard, slender chest brushed my breasts. I could hear my breathing, and his, and that of the young adept, who knelt watching.

One surrenders, as a patron; I never understood that before. I surrendered that night, to Raphael and Gentian House, the fragrance of scented oil and the sweet blue opium smoke, letting pleasure mount in slow-building waves, while we rocked on it as on the breast of the sea. It seemed to come from a very great distance when it broke, moving in a great tidal surge, vaster and slower than any climax I had known. I closed my eyes, feeling it spiral outward from our conjoined bodies to the vast reaches of time, wave after wave breaking on the outermost shoals of my awareness, distant and ponderous.

"May I?" Raphael Murain whispered when my eyes opened.

I felt him still moving inside me, and whispered back, "Yes."

It was his eyes that closed, then, long lashes curled like waves breaking; I gasped as he inhaled sharply, drawing in the very breath of our commingled pleasure. His body went rigid against me as he spent himself, a sweet, hot throbbing deep inside of me.

Afterward, we slept, and I dreamed.

Not since Joscelin had foresworn me had I spent a night's slumber with any other living soul; I could have grieved, to realize how much I had missed it. After all his careful grace, Raphael slept with a child's abandon, fine silken hair spilling across my face, limbs slack with spent pleasure. The lamps had burned low, the opium expired. The lyricist and the adept had discreetly withdrawn. Because I had given myself no choice, I welcomed Raphael's weight, his even breathing, and slept.

Slept, and dreamed.

I dreamed I was a child once more in Delaunay's household. Alcuin was there, and our old study, in Delaunay's home. We sat across a table from one another, he and I, poring over scrolls, pursuing the mystery of the Master of the Straits. I was near to grasping the key, when an adept of Cereus House wearing a snow-fox's mask poked his head in the door, and I bid him crossly to leave me. "You're late," the snow-fox said, voice muffled. "The joie has already been poured." ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">