Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [316]
"Phèdre makes a mess of her study when she's trying to find something." He offered the words warily, watching her reaction. "She doesn't think so, but she does."
"Does she?" Thelesis smiled. "I wouldn't have imagined it. I am Thelesis de Mornay. You must be Imriel."
He made a half-bow. "Imriel nó Montrève."
"I know." She touched his cheek lightly. "A fine name you bear, and a noble one. Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève was a friend of mine, and I mourn him still. He would be proud of what Phèdre has made of his name, and as proud again to know you bear it. He never did, you know, not in his adult lifetime. Have you heard that story?"
"Yes." Imriel relaxed, smiling back at her. "We have a bust of him, you know."
"I know." It had been her gift to me. "I'd like to hear your story, Imriel, if you wouldn't mind telling it to me. Yours, and Phèdre's and Joscelin's, too."
So we told our story to the Queen's Poet from beginning to end, and it was a long time in the telling. The quiet servant brought tea sweetened with honey and a plate of small cakes, a warm blanket of fine-combed wool which he settled carefully about his mistress' shoulders as Thelesis sat and listened without interrupting, sipping tea to suppress her cough. From time to time, her dark eyes filled with tears. We told the story in turns, and the only sound save for one voice speaking was the soft noise of oak-galls being ground to powder for ink. In time, even that fell silent as Thelesis' young apprentice ceased her labors to listen, perched on her stool, chin in her hands.
"Oh, my," Thelesis murmured when we had finished. "Oh, children."
There wasn't much more she could say. At the distant worktable, her apprentice picked up her bowl and resumed grinding.
"It's not a tale fit for poetry," I said. "Not Daršanga."
"No." Her gaze rested on Imri, filled with compassion. "But it is a story that must be told, that we might remember and never let such a thing come to pass again. I will think on how best it might be done. I may not live to see it finished, but I daresay I will see it begun."
"You shouldn't say such things," I said, not wanting to hear them.
Her smile was tinged with sorrow. "Ah, Phèdre! You've never shiedaway from truth. I've lived through such times as poets dream of, and I have no regrets. But don't fear, my dear, I'll not leave yet. To miss the end of the story—ah, now that would grieve me." Her tone changed. "It must be hard for you to wait."
I took a deep breath, and made no reply.
"Ysandre will forgive you, you know." Thelesis read my expression. "You gave her no choice, Phèdre. And I daresay she took it harder, coming from you. But I remember your young Tsingano friend very well indeed, and I suspect he has reserves of fortitude he's yet to tap. Nearly two years ago, you gave him the gift of hope. He'll wait thirty years, if he must; three months is naught to one facing immortality."
My heart rose. "Sibeal delivered my message?"
"No one told you?" She shook her head. "Of course not. Who would dare? Yes, my dear, she did. He permitted the Cruarch's ship to enter the harbor, and she told him. And don't forget, Hyacinthe has the gift of the dromonde, does he not? As many unforeseeable turns as the path of your life has taken before, I suspect it lies clear at this point."
"To Rahab." I shivered.
"To the angel known as Pride," Thelesis said, "and Insolence." Her voice was gentle. "Do you know what you will do when you arrive?"
"No," I said. "Not really."
"She'll have a plan by the time we get there,"