Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [155]
"Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," he said, greeting me in a rich voice. "Well met."
His D'Angeline bride stood with her back to us, handing off their infant son to a nursemaid; a charming touch, I thought. She turned to take her seat on the lesser throne, and the silver netting of Asherat's Veil flashed, clear glass beads refracting the light.
"Your Highnesses." I made a deep curtsy, and held it. Behind me, I heard my chevaliers bend their knees, I spoke without rising, glancing up under my lashes. "Your highness, Prince Benedicte, I have dire news to report. There is a treason within the very heart of Terre d'Ange, that has born seeds even within your own guard."
"Yes," Benedicte said gravely, looking down at me. "I know."
I had opened my mouth to continue; I had not expected his reply and was left on an indrawn breath. With one graceful gesture, his bride drew back the Veil of Asherat, baring her face to smile at me.
What you seek you will find in the last place you look...
"Hello, Phèdre," said Melisande.
FORTY-ONE
1 stood as frozen and dumb as if the earth had dropped beneath my feet.
And I understood, too late.
I had been played from the very beginning.
On his throne, Prince Benedicte shifted, nodding toward the back of the room. Only then did I hear the sound of the door being barred, the footsteps of guards and the sliding rasp of weapons drawn; only then did I hear the soft, shocked breathing of my chevaliers behind me.
And on Melisande's beautiful face, a trace of pity.
It broke my paralysis. I spun to face Remy and Fortun, one word bursting sharply from my lips: "Run!"
If, if, if. If Joscelin had been with us, they might have done it, might have broken free. There were only ten guardsmen; L'Agnacites, members of the garrison of Troyes-le-Mont, their loyalty bought and paid for. He was a Cassiline, trained to fighting in close quarters, and seasoned in too many battles. They might have done it.
Or Joscelin might have died with them. I will never know.
They fought well, my chevaliers. What would have happened if they had gained the door, I cannot say. They might have escaped the Little Court alive. I like to think so. They had surprise on their side, and quick-thinking agility. But I had signed their death warrants when I brought them with me into the presence of Prince Benedicte's new bride, and I had seen it writ in her expression, his nod.
I made myself watch it. I was responsible.
My steady Fortun, who had learned my lessons all too well. He went straight for the door, using the strength of his broad shoulders to push his way through, wounded thrice over before he got close. Remy wrested a sword from one of the guards and held them off for a moment, cursing like the sailor he was. Remy, who had first raised the standard of Phèdre's Boys, that dart-crossed circle of scarlet, on the road to Dobria.
I watched him die, born down by sheer numbers. He had sung marching-chants on the road, the ones I despaired of quelling. He had sung along the canals of La Serenissima in my service. The treacherous steel of Prince Benedicte's guardsmen silenced him for good.
They took Fortun from behind, a dagger low to the kidneys. His outstretched hand left a long smear of blood onthe gilded woodwork of the throne room door. He still had the map of Troyes-le-Mont slung across his back in its carrying case, a fool's scabbard. I saw his mouth form a circle of pain as he fell slowly to his knees; they had to stab him again, to the heart. Then his face went peaceful, and the light died in his eyes as he slumped to the marble floor.
Fortun, who had chosen to serve me long before the others, for carrying water to the wounded and dying on the battlefield of Bryn Gorrydum, for the stunned look on my face when I took Quintilius Rousse's sword and dubbed him chevalier.
He had a good-luck name,