Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [313]
She eyed me. "Do you have aught else to say?"
"Yes, your majesty." I knelt and proffered the coffer I'd held tucked under my left arm, opening the lid. "Her majesty Queen Zanadakhete of Meroë, who is likewise ruler of Jebe-Barkal, sends her greetings, and wishes you to know that she would welcome a D'Angeline embassy in Meroë, did you wish to send one."
Ysandre removed the necklace from the coffer and held it up for inspection. The necklace dangled from her hand, gleaming gold, the massive emerald betwixt the horns of Isis refracting glints of green light on the walls of the throne-room.
It was worth a king's ransom.
"Queen Zanadakhete of Meroë," Ysandre echoed.
"Yes, your majesty." I'd bowed my head after I gave it to her; I kept it that way.
"Phèdre." Her tone startled me into looking up. Ysandre's face was unreadable. "Did you find the object of your quest?"
We might have been alone in the throne-room, she and I. When all was said and done, we had been through a good deal together, Ysandre de la Courcel and I. My lord Delaunay had pledged his life to protect her, for love of her father. Most of the battles I have fought have been her battles, and if I have regretted any, it was only the means, not the cause.
Our lives too were intertwined.
And that too was the Name of God.
"Yes, your majesty," I said, gazing up at her and feeling unbidden tears prick my eyes. "I found what I sought."
Ysandre nodded slowly and looked about the throne-room, the Companions' Star in one hand, the necklace of Queen Zanadakhete of Meroë in the other. No one spoke; even Barquiel L'Envers did not cracka smile. "In your missive, wherein you admitted your guilt, you cited the rainy season in Jebe-Barkal as a reason you chose not to delay and return Prince Imriel into the custody of Lord Amaury Trente. Is it not so?"
"Yes, my lady," I murmured. "It is so."
"Well and good." Ysandre dropped the necklace into the coffer I held still in my outstretched hands, closing the lid and nodding to a bowing attendant to take it. "Since your guilt is admitted freely, this, then, is my sentence. For the duration of a season, this season you were unwilling to squander for my kinsman's safe return, you and your household will abide in the City of Elua."
Hyacinthe.
"Enough!" Ysandre's eyes flashed. "How much indulgence will you beg of me, Phèdre nó Delaunay? You were quick to boast of the Master of the Straits' friendship; is it such a slight thing that three more months will jeopardize it? You will abide in the City for the duration of winter, and do you set foot outside the walls, you will be charged with treason. Is that understood?"
"Hyacinthe gave his life for you, my lady," I said. "For you, and for Terre d'Ange, that Drustan mab Necthana might ride to your aid and your side."
"No." Something softened in Ysandre's face. "He gave it for you, Phèdre. And I am not unmindful of the sacrifice he usurped. Nonetheless, you knowingly defied my will, and your transgression carries a price. I regret that Hyacinthe son of Anasztaizia must bear the cost— but it is on your head, and not mine. Will you abide by my judgement?"
I bowed my head, feeling the cold marble beneath my knees. It was bitter—and it was fair. "Yes," I whispered. "I will abide."
NINETY-TWO
WHEN POETS sing of the Bitterest Winter in Terre d'Ange, they mean the winter before the Skaldic invasion, when sickness ravaged the land, when Melisande Shahrizai and Isidore d'Aiglemort betrayed it, when Ganelon de la Courcel, the old King, died.
For me, it was this one.
It began with Ysandre's dismissal, and the long walk back through the throne-room, through the Palace halls. I had been too quick to boast of my composure under the stares of my peers. These cut hard and deep, and the whispers had turned cruel.
"Phèdre. Phèdre."
No wonder I had been unable to find Hyacinthe in my dream.