Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [320]
"The Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, Mes-sire Joscelin Verreuil, the chevalier Philippe Dumont," he called in ringing tones.
Save for the birdsong and fountain, silence fell over the vast space as the music ceased; and then a soft ripple of applause, D'Angeline heads inclined in bows. I had not fully grasped, until then, that we were the guests of honor and the fête awaited on our entrance. Ysandre received us personally, extending both hands in greeting, Drustan mab Necthana at her side.
I had seen him, of course, when he entered the City in procession, but there had been time only for a brief exchange of pleasantries. It gladdened my heart to see him again; his quiet smile, dark eyes calm and steady in his blue-whorled face.
"It is good," he said softly in Cruithne, a tongue we shared, "that we gather to celebrate your courage, Phèdre nó Delaunay."
I thought of Ysandre's ride between the black shields of the Unforgiven, her upraised profile defying the troops of Percy de Somerville, and shook my head. "If I have seenaught of courage, my lord Cruarch, I have seen it in your lady wife, who is my liege and sovereign."
Drustan's dark eyes crinkled with amusement. "Do not say it, or she will be vexed with you; it is her wish to give you your due." He turned to Joscelin, clasping his forearms. "My brother," he said simply. "If you were less skilled with blades, my heart would have died within me that day."
"And the heart of Terre d'Ange with it," Joscelin murmured, returning his grip hard. "I am passing glad to be here today, my lord Cruarch."
With that, Drustan turned to Ti-Philippe; I did not hear what he said, for I was caught up in a whirl of greetings, hands proffered, cheeks pressed close to give the kiss of greeting. There were people there I had not seen for nearly a year—indeed, faces I had last seen gloating over the falling-out I had staged with Ysandre and Drustan. Such is politics. While the fate of the realm hangs in the balance, these things continue. It seemed much longer than a year gone by. I saw the faces of those who knew—Lord Amaury Trente, Lady Vivienne, others who had been present on our terrible race across Caerdicca Unitas—and saw the same knowledge reflected in their eyes, how near a thing it had been. They had been there, in the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea, where Benedicte de la Courcel nearly gained the throne of Terre d'Ange.
For the rest, it was merely a poet's tale.
A ten-day siege laid to the City; how quickly and easily people forget! Ysandre's ride had done that, had rendered the whole of Melisande's vast and intricate scheme no more than a misunderstanding, one man's treasonous folly, a footnote in the annals of history. Now, seeing the ease and merriment of the D'Angeline nobles, I understood the true import of her actions.
Not all had forgotten, for Barquiel L'Envers was there. Our eyes met in the crowded ballroom and he inclined his fair-cropped head, according me my due. We had gauged each other wrongly, he and I, and both of us knew it. If our methods were unorthodox, still, our ends had been the same.
Nicola L'Envers y Aragon had tried to tell me as much, and I would not hear her; I had learned that much in the thetalos, the cost of my pride and the ghost of Delaunay's ancient enmity. Small wonder, thinking on it, that I half-thought I had conjured her image between us. But I was wrong, for Nicola was there, amused at my blinking startlement across the crowd; I could not help that my blood beat faster in my veins at it.
I'd no time, though, to speak with Nicola or any number of other guests before the bell rang to summon us to the table. Ysandre and Drustan presided at either end. As her nearest kin