Melisande's son.
And as for Ysandre de la Courcel, I thought, she would become a tragic footnote in D'Angeline history. Slain, no doubt, during some Serenissiman intrigue gone deadly awry. What Melisande had planned, I did not know, but I could guess well enough that no trace of it led back to her, nor to Benedicte.
Who would stand against her, then, with Benedicte at her side?
There was Quintilius Rousse—and him, I could not guess. Would he swallow it or no? He would never believe me a traitor, 1 thought, nor Melisande innocent. And yet, he knew Benedicte of old, and Percy de Somerville, too. What could the Royal Admiral do, if the army held the land? Little enough, it might be; especially if the Serenissiman navy stood in support of Benedicte's claim. And if Marco Stre-gazza were elected Doge, I'd no doubt that would follow. Quintìlius Rousse was canny and a survivor. He might back Benedicte's claim, if he felt he had no other choice.
There was Barquiel L'Envers.
And he, I thought ruefully, was the key. The Duc L'Envers, whom I had thought my enemy. He was the rea son Benedicte dared not act without the support of the Royal Army. As Ysandre's maternal uncle, he stood the nearest challenger to the throne, with ties by marriage to Aragonia, to Alba, to Khebbel-im-Akkad. All of whom might rally to L'Envers' cause if there was a whiff of suspicion concerning Ysandre's death. Drustan would, I was sure of it; nor had I forgotten the company of Aragonian spearmen which had fought beside us against the Skaldi, and the deadly Akkadian cavalry.
They would need to act quickly, Benedicte, Melisande and de Somerville, to secure the
throne
and dispose of Bar quiel L'Envers.
1 am a fool, I thought, to have believed so easily. All is not lost until the game is played out in full, and it is not, not yet. It is a bitter hand Melisande has dealt me, but there are some cards still unplayed.
So I mused and thought, until the light began to fail in my stifling chamber and one of the guards brought my evening meal. Constantin, he was called, silent and grey. As the prison guards went, I liked him well enough, for he troubled me not.
"Constantin," I said to him when I returned my empty tray. "Will you carry a message to the warden for me?"
He shifted the tray in his arms and looked stolidly at me. "I will carry it. I do not promise he will hear."
"I understand," I said gravely. "Pray tell him I seek an audience with him."
"I will do that."
No more did he say, and with that, I had to be content. Falling night leached the last of the light from my cell. I sat on my pallet and watched the afterglow fade through my narrow window, blue twilight turning to grey and thence to star-pricked black. As vision failed, the endless moan of Asherat's grief filled my senses. Awake, I listened, picking out the sounds of my prison mates amid the cacophony. I had named them all, in the endless nights. The Wailer, whose ululating cries rose and fell without ceasing. The Scratcher, who made sounds like a small animal trying to tunnel through solid rock. The Snarler, who had wits left to curse his fate. The Banger ... I did not like to think what the Banger did, producing dull muffled thuds that punctu ated the howling night. There were others, mayhap seven or eight. It was hard to tell, even to my trained ear. I was not sure but that the Pleader and the Screamer were not the same person. I never heard them at the same time, but I was not certain if it were one prisoner alternating between begging despair and wild rage, or merely the orchestrations of mad ness.
When I am gone... it will be worse.
It would get worse. It would get a great deal worse. I did not yet cry out in the night, but only woke whimpering from a fitful sleep. When my dreams were full of naught but Malvio's slippery, grinning gaze, Fabron's lewd whisper in my ear ... ah, Elua!
It would get much, much worse.
If Joscelin and Ti-Philippe lived, if they stood a chance, it would be worth it.
Because I did not think I could withstand Melisande for very long.
If.
I fell asleep at last, exhausted by the torments of my mind. Morning came and wore on late; at length, a guard came with food. It was Tito, his gaze sympathetic in his broad, homely face. I asked him if the warden would see me today, and he shrugged, shaking his head. He did not know. I thanked him anyway, and ate my morning meal. A slab of cold porridge, but drizzled with honey. Tito watched hulking to see if I liked it.
"From you?" I asked.
He nodded and beamed like a child. "The beekeepers' tribute came. I had a piece this big." With massive hands held apart, he indicated the size of the honeycomb. "I saved some for you."
Despite it all, I smiled. "Thank you, Tito. It's very good."
There is no rock on which the mortal soul may founder but that contains some frail tendril of human kindness strug gling to grow; this much I have found to be true. Is it a weakness in me that I sought ever to reward it? I cannot say, only that I would do the same, though Tito's simple- minded fondness proved blessing and curse alike, in the end. So I think now; then, I merely watched him carefully swipe the last telltale traces of honey from the platter and suck his fingers, at once grateful and sorrowing that this was what kindness had come to in my life.
The warden did not come that day, nor the next. I paced my stifling cell, sweating and irritable. Each time I heard a key in the lock, my heart raced with fear that it would be Melisande, come for my reply. Fear and dread bound in an awful knot of complex desire that left my mouth dry and my pulse pounding in my veins.
On the third day, the warden came.
I heard the key, this time, too soon to be a guard come with the evening meal. Quickly, with trembling fingers, I bound my hair at my nape with the loose knot we called lover's-haste in the Night Court, that will stay without pins or a caul. Gathering myself into a semblance of dignity, I stood to receive my guest, smoothing the grey dress.
When the warden entered, accompanied by Fabron, I in clined my head, according him the greeting among equals we use at court. He made no response, but only said in his colorless voice, "You asked to see me."
"Yes, my lord warden." I took a breath; I had not expected him to soften. "My lord, I wish to beg of you a boon. I wish to send a letter, no more." I paused, and he said naught. "I will not insult you by protesting my innocence, my lord," I continued. "I daresay you hear it often enough, and 'tis not your place to judge, but only to enforce. I ask only the chance to notify my Queen of my fate. As she is my sovereign, she has the right to know; no less would we accord to any foreign national in Terre d'Ange. And you may believe me," I added, "when I tell you that Ysandre de la Courcel would pay dearly for this knowledge." His expression did not change. I took a step forward. "Aught you might ask, my lord," I said steadily. "I will set it in writing, and bind her by the sacred words of House L'Envers, her mother's line, that not even the Queen herself may refuse."
And I could, too, for I now knew that Nicola L'Envers y Aragon had not played me false, but given a weapon of great power into my hands. She was right, Barquiel L'Envers and I had been stupidly blinded by our suspicions, and the throne would be lost because of it. Like squabbling children in a barn, we had ignored the open door through which the wolf might saunter.
It doesn't matter what you believe. Just remember it.
I did.
The warden stirred. Over his left shoulder, Fabron mouthed something obscene at me, miming a wet-lipped kiss. I ignored him, concentrating on the warden.
Who said, flatly, "No."
I stared, uncomprehending, and waited for more while my heart sunk like a stone in my breast. When it was not forth coming, I fought the ludicrous urge to laugh and said in stead, "My lord, may 1 ask why?"
His words were measured out like the slow drip of water falling in a cave. "This is La Dolorosa and I am its warden. No more and no less. Asherat has sent you, and I will ward you until she claims you."
"Asherat!" The word burst from my lips. "My lord, Asherat's very Oracle has been subverted in the conspiracy that sent me here'. Ask, if you do not believe, ask in the great temple in the Square, and see if Her prophet's place was not usurped for a day! Ask the Doge himself, the Beloved of Asherat, how Her priestesses have dealt with him! I tell you, thrones hang upon this letter, and the very sanctity of your beliefs!"
I was raving; 1 knew I was raving. And worse, I could not seem to stop. As the torrent of my voice continued, I saw the warden nod once to Fabron, who came forward to grip my arms, driving me backward. He maneuvered his body close to mine, licking his lips.
It was not easy, but I regained control of myself and shook him off. Melisande's bond of protection held; he let go of me ostentatiously, raising both hands in the air.
"Elua grant you may regret this, my lord," I said quietly to the warden.
"You may pray so, if you wish." No more than that did he say, but opened the door to my cell, beckoning Fabron ahead of him and exiting after. The door closed and locked, leaving me alone once more.
One hope, gone.
It left only Joscelin and Ti-Philippe ... or Melisande.
I did not much like my chances either way.
FORTY-FOUR
Melisande did not come without warning.
I knew, the next time a guard brought a wash bucket and soap, what it meant. I took no pleasure in it this time, only a certain bitter amusement. It would not do for the Princess- Consort of Benedicte de la Courcel to find me unwashed and unkempt in a foul and reeking cell, of course. No, Melisande would order me bathed, like some battle-chieftain with a choice captive of war.
I did it, though I was tempted to defiance. But having already been forcibly fed, I had no wish to repeat the ex perience with a scrubbing, and something in the guard's expression—he was a new one, whose name I did not know—suggested that it was likely. When I had done, I donned the clean dress he'd brought and sat cross-legged on my pallet to wait.
I did not have overlong.
This time, I did not flinch, nor retreat. I remained as I was, while Melisande's presence filled the cell like a can dleflame or a song. I was proud of that small act of will. If she had brought me low, well then, that was the territory I would claim for my own. Let her stoop, if she wished to reach me.
So I thought; being Melisande, of course, she did not, but merely looked down at me, gauging to a nicety what I did, and why. A faint smile hovered at the coiner of her mouth. I had no tricks she did not know. What my lord Delaunay had taught me, he taught her, too, long ago. And in turn, she taught him to use people.
As he had used me.
"Have you decided?" Melisande inquired.
I tilted my head back against the stone walls of my cell. "What would you do with me?"
Another might have mistaken my meaning; Melisande didn't. "There is a dungeon in the Little Court. You would be held there until. .. matters in La Serenissima were re solved. Or mayhap longer. It depends on you." She glanced mildly around my cell. "It is a good deal more pleasant than this, being built for the enjoyment of Kusheline guests. Light, you will have, and comforts; decent clothing, food, a proper bath. Texts, if you wish; the library is good. Is it less secure for it, you wonder? No." She shook her head. "Not by much."
"By some."
"Yes," Melisande said thoughtfully. "Some."
"There is the chance that I might play you false and win your trust."
"Yes." A glimmer of amusement lit her glorious eyes. "There is that, too. Although I daresay if you thought it likely, you'd not say it aloud."
Since it was true, I didn't bother to answer, asking instead, "Why risk it at all? All that you have striven for lies within your reach. Is it worth jeopardizing, no matter how slight the risk, merely to toy with me? I don't believe it, my lady, and I mistrust this offer of yours."
"Do you?" Melisande walked to gaze through the barred window at the distant horizon, filtered daylight rendering her lovely features serene. "The game of thrones is a mortal one, my dear. Even if this gambit were to fail—and it will not— still, I have secured my endgame. My son, who is innocent in all things, stands third in line to the throne, the only scion of Courcel lineage untouched by treachery. No other mem ber of House Shahrizai has achieved so much. But you ..." Turning, she smiled at me. "Kushiel has chosen you, Phèdre, and marked you as his own. To toy with you is to play a god's game."
I shuddered. "You are mad," I said faintly.
"No." Melisande shook her head again. "Only ambitious. I will ask again: Have you decided?"
The crash and wail of the mourning sea filled the silence that stretched between us. It would drive me mad, in time; it had already begun. I knew it, the day I raved at the warden's refusal. But at least that madness would claim only me, and I would remain true to myself to the end. Melisande's way ... that was another matter. If I gambled and lost, I betrayed a great deal more.
Torn between terror and longing, I gave a despairing laugh. "My lady, I am destroyed either way. Will you make me choose?"
"Destroyed?" She raised her eyebrows. "You do me an injustice, I think."
